


Waylaid

by Unsent13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crying, Desperation, Gen, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Wetting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28875036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsent13/pseuds/Unsent13
Summary: Tom finds himself considerably alarmed at the fact Dumbledore is still here talking to him when he’s so close to tasting blessed relief. Perhaps he should have gone earlier.
Kudos: 8





	Waylaid

Tom needs a wee. He has since breakfast, but, since the dorm bathrooms were all occupied and he’d overslept since he was running late, and he only caught breakfast as it was ending, and had had to rush off to lessons without a break with toast crammed into his mouth, he thinks possibly he can be forgiven for not doing the ‘adult’ thing and just _going_ , especially since professors – he’s seen it happen – are more likely to look down, unimpressed, at a student who’s asked to go to the toilet, and ask ‘well, why didn’t you go before?’ and wait for the giggles from other students but not the explanation, than say ‘yes’ and keep the information as to what the student was requesting _private_. And he’s always been... tentative, mentioning these sorts of very human, unfortunate, uncomfortable things. As Voldemort, he should be above that. As Voldemort, he should be better. So he hadn’t asked in first lesson, and the break had been too short between the lessons to go _then_ , and certainly in second lesson, Transfiguration, he _could_ have probably asked (and been given permission), but... Dumbledore. The man had always held a grudge (against what, Tom didn’t know) and any information that put Tom in an unflattering light (like leaving going to the toilet for so long that asking, and drawing attention to his pressed-together thighs and stiff expression, would be mortifying) he would use against Tom in a heartbeat, if only for the purposes of needling.

Then of course, he has a meeting as ‘Voldemort’ that he can’t be late to (or risk having to explain himself, and he doesn’t-... Voldemort must be more than human, less than human, unhuman. He’s cultivated respect from that assumption. He doesn’t want it to come crashing down because _Voldemort_ has human needs (like visiting the lavatory) and _Voldemort_ has to bow to them, just as much as anyone. Voldemort bows for nothing and nobody (and can’t at the moment, because, if he bowed, he’d start weeing on himself and wouldn’t be able to stop). Voldemort bows to the lesson timetable but not to much else.) So he attends the meeting. And is very stiff and formal and unforgiving. And gets things done. And leaves.

Except then it’s third lesson, and there’s no _time_ to go, and he’s bursting. If he were less (shy), less (awkward), less (likely to blush red and stutter and be horrifically embarrassed) he would swallow his pride and (run for it), but he isn’t. He’s more. (Or less.) And so Divination (with its ladder and _tea_ and all that is god-forsaken) is excruciating.

Next, there is a short period in which he _could_ go. In which he _must_ go... And yet walking to class is half trying to act as if everything is fine and half _not being fine_ ; stopping in out of the way corridors to curl up into a ball and hold his crotch like a child and hope as hard as he ever has that he doesn’t disgrace himself on the way to the next lesson. The next _hour long_ lesson. After which there is lunch, which will be a reprieve, and he’ll be able to (carefully, gingerly) make his way to the toilet and finally, finally relieve his bladder. (And Tom really, _really_ needs a wee. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t wet himself in Charms. Lucky. Fuck.)

Except he _is_ lucky. He’s lucky. He’s lucky, and desperate, and barely keeping from cringing and twisting and just _grabbing onto himself and stumbling off_ when they leave, and then-

“Ah, Mr Riddle-”

 _No, no, no, no, no,_ fuck.

“Professor.” If it sounds strangled, Professor Dumbledore doesn’t notice.

“I was wondering if I may have a word? I was intending to speak to you after Transfiguration, but you disappeared.”

“I was busy, sir. I’m busy _currently_ , sir.”

“This will only take a few minutes, Mr Riddle.”

Now is not a good time to remember what ‘riddle’ rhymes with. He shifts.

“You seem to be finding the classwork-” (And Professor Dumbledore stretches out what could be one short sentence into several _very long_ sentences punctuated by the odd tangent, and Tom can’t even discern the meaning of any of it because he’s trying so hard not to relieve himself there on the carpet.) “- _Tom_!”

Tom’s head snaps up. “My apologies, Professor,” he said. “My focus must have drifted for a moment.”

Dumbledore looks concerned. (Fuck.) “Mr Riddle, I was asking you whether you were alright. Your eyes glazed over and you didn’t respond for several minutes. I found myself becoming considerably alarmed.”

Tom finds himself considerably alarmed at the fact Dumbledore is _still here_ talking to him when he’s so close to tasting blessed relief. “I am fine, sir.”

“I am glad to hear it, Tom. Now, if I may reiterate-”

“Tom!” says Abraxas from out of nowhere, and claps a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Where’ve you _been_?”

Tom startles. He fucking startles. He fucking _startles_. “Oh god,” he whispers, as his bladder gives way and, in front of _Dumbledore_ and _Abraxas_ , he starts _pissing on the floor_. He can’t cover it up, except to press his legs together and place his hands in front of his crotch, and that’s damning in itself. That, and the wet, pattering stream of urine noisily hitting wood and, to Tom’s horror, trickling down an incline to puddle in a completely different spot to where he’s standing. He feels his face go dreadfully, mortifyingly red as the damp feeling in his pants and trousers spreads and clings to his thighs and he can’t _stop_ because there’s too much of it – he’s left it too long – and it just floods out and the puddle grows larger and larger, and Tom _doesn’t_ need a wee, now, and that’s fucking _worse_. And then he just stands there, staring in horror at the floor (where the puddle is) and feeling tears well up in his eyes.

“Sorry, Professor,” he says, shakily, and just continues to stand where he is because he doesn’t know what to do.

There’s a sudden breeze and it disappears; the puddle, the dampness of his clothes, any suggestion of a smell. He feels clean again.

“Mr Malfoy,” says Professor Dumbledore, sounding as grandfatherly as he ever does with _normal_ students. (It doesn’t irritate him as much at it normally does, this time. He’s too ashamed to feel anything else.) “I trust you are not about to go spreading this among the student body?”

Abraxas sounds shaken. “Um... no, sir. I’ll keep it to myself.”

“Very good. In that case, if you could leave us, for the minute. I would like to continue my conversation with Mr Riddle.”

“Of course, sir. Um... see you later, Tom.”

And Professor Dumbledore puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder, fields him into the empty Charm’s classroom, and locks the door behind them both.

Tom feels his lip quiver out of his control and he sucks in a breath which is much more unsteady than he would have liked. The tears in his eyes tremble and one of them falls. He knows Dumbledore’s seen. The man sees everything. “Sorry,” he says again, voice strangled and thick. “Sorry-” And then his chin crumples and he puts an arm over his eyes and can’t stop the sobs. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t- I tried- I didn’t- I’m sorry-”

Dumbledore gathers him into an embrace and pulls his head into his shoulder and lets him cry as weakly as he wants to. Lets him be completely pathetic without saying a thing. Lets him just apologise and keep apologising and doesn’t say a word.

Tom clings onto him, hating himself for hanging onto that small bit of comfort.

“I am not here to offer recriminations,” says Dumbledore, finally, after Tom’s breathing has stopped choking with sobs and he’s devolved into sniffling and trying not to get snot on Dumbledore’s shirt. “I am sure every one of us on this earth has been in a similar predicament at some point or another. Nobody is blaming you for this, Tom.”

At the orphanage, he would have been beaten. “Sorry,” he says, in way of answer, which isn’t, he supposes, an answer at all.

“An explanation is unnecessary, given the subject matter-”

“I should have gone,” says Tom, “but there wasn’t time. I didn’t have _time_ , and then- I didn’t want to, to ask in, in class- I don’t like- a-attention for, for that sort of- I didn’t-” He sniffles and wipes his eyes on a sleeve, pulling back from Dumbledore. (He’s been acting like a _child_.) “S-sorry.”

“It’s alright, Mr Riddle. There is nothing to forgive.”

“I- I _disgraced_ myself-”

“To my mind, no disgrace occurred.”

“And then I _cried_ like a _child_. _On_ you, sir. I- I didn’t mean to be- I was such an inconvenience. I-”

“Tom,” says Dumbledore, and, when Tom looks up, he has that grandfatherly twinkle in his eye, for _Tom_ , and Tom feels worse. “It was nothing but a mistake, and that I have forgiven you for. I invited you here not to recriminate and seek blame, but to make sure you were alright. Are you alright?”

“Not really, sir,” says Tom. He probably can’t get away with a ‘fine’ with tears drying on his face. “I’ll get over it, sir.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear,” says Dumbledore, and puts a steady hand on his shoulder.


End file.
